


Alive

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Top Arthur, bottom dutch, porn with angst, you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 01:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: "Pain.That’s what Dutch wants.Physical, real, alive."The aftermath of Arthur's escape from Colm.





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooooooooooooooo
> 
> I wanted to try something new. In both writing, and Vandermorgan style. I don't know if it's quite worked, it was a challenge, but this has been an idea of mine for a long time. 
> 
> Yes, it's bottom Dutch. This is definitely not the Arthur and Dutch from my series. This is...just a one-shot.
> 
> I hope you guys like it. I thought a break from all the full on porn would be a good thing but now I'm regretting it. 
> 
> Kudos and comments would be so lovely :) I'm feeling even more nervous than normal about this one.

Arthur remembers almost nothing of the first night after he escaped Colm. He remembers his horse. He remembers people calling out his name. He remembers Susan and Tilly.

He thinks he remembers Dutch holding him up. 

But after that, nothing. It’s a blur. He knows Susan stayed with him all night. He knows he was given medicine.

He knows he hallucinated some, because of the pain.

He also knows that Dutch wasn’t there.

The second night, he remembers. He remembers waking in a fever dream and asking for Dutch. He remembers Susan leaning over him on the bed, pressing a wet rag to his forehead. 

He remembers asking and getting no answer.

The third, fourth and fifth nights are a blur. Fever setting in and then going. Leaving him exhausted and broken, damaged and in pain.

He only remembers asking and getting the same answer.

“He’s not back yet.”

The sixth night he kicks everyone from his tent. Blessed peace, blessed silence, blessed isolation.

And now it’s the seventh night, and he thinks he might be hallucinating again. Because he can feel him there. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know that he’s sat on the stool vacated by Susan two nights ago. But,

If he does open his eyes,

And he isn’t really there?

So he keeps them closed, takes a quick assessment of all the pain in his body. It’s lessened certainly, although his shoulder is still screaming from the botched bullet removal he did. Everything else feels better. He knows he’ll be up and about in a day or two.

Back to work.

He can’t keep them closed any longer.

And

He’s there.

No waistcoat, no hat, shirt sticking to him with the heat of another sweltering night. Leaning forwards, forearms resting on his thighs, head down. 

Dutch.

He looks up and Arthur realises he must have spoken out loud. 

“My boy.” 

The anger rushes in. The rage. The pain and the longing and the utter abandonment. 

Arthur turns his head from him.

“Son…”

“Don’t.” He turns back, fire and anger. “Where in the goddamn hell have you been Dutch?” He’s made him angry, or startled him. He can see it in the tightening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

“Where do you think?” Deep voice. Dangerous voice.

Arthur half wants to weep,

And half wants to choke him.

“I don’t…” He presses a hand over his eyes, shakes his head.

“I been looking for him. Colm. But he’s gone underground, rabbited. He’s nowhere…” Dutch trails off and Arthur has to look at him. 

Half amazed and half incredulous.

Dutch sighs, shifts in his seat just a little so that he’s closer, closer to him.

“I tried, Arthur.”

The anger returns.

“I don’t care.” He drops his head back on his pillow and rubs at his face with both hands. “I don’t care about Colm O’Driscoll, I don’t care if you kill him or he kills himself or falls off a goddamn mountain. I don’t…” Talking so much, after so many days, makes him cough and he falls back again, sick of how weak he’s been.

“I care.” Oh

The emphasis.

The righteousness. 

Arthur says nothing. 

Even as Dutch leans forward, lightly touches to his outstretched forearm, strokes his fingers up and up and up until the stop just shy of the bandages covering the bullet wound.

Even as the heat of the touch threatens to burn him to the ground.

He says nothing.

Because he sees now, what he refused to see when he woke to find him there. What he still refuses to acknowledge in the petulant way of a child who’s hurting, who was left alone by the person he needed most. 

Dutch,

Shaken to his core.

“It’s my fault.” Spoken so quietly, so no-one else can hear. But Arthur hears it. Hears every word as Dutch moves closer, knee up on the bed, leaning over him…

“And I said...I said with you besides me I would walk into hell itself, but I didn’t think…” 

And Arthur can’t speak, can’t say anything.

Because he has never seen Dutch like this.

“I didn’t think Colm would remember.” 

He’s drunk, or at least part way there. As if he had to give himself something, some courage. And Arthur can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’s seen Dutch drunk.

“Remember what?” His words come out thick. Thick with confusion. Thick with anger. 

Thick with desire.

“My dear boy,” He’s standing now, and Arthur notices for the first time that his tent is closed, that the camp is quiet,

And that something has changed.

“Lovely boy.” 

“Dutch…” He tries to sit up, as Dutch kicks off his boots and starts to unbuckle his gun belt. “Dutch I ain’t up to that.” 

As much as he wants to.

As much as he will always want to.

And Dutch is moving over him now, pushing down the thin blanket and exposing him to the sticky hot air. He smiles when he sees the full extent of Arthurs desires, his body betraying his words, cock already half hard from just the possibility of a fuck.

So few and far between that he’s hard from just that.

He tries to sit up, knowing full well he doesn’t have it in him for Dutch to fuck him but he can use his hand, he can do that. 

“Lay down.” The command in his voice

It makes him stop,

Hand so close.

He curls it into a fist and pulls back.

And then

Oh God,

God,

Dutch straddles his hips.

This is not how it goes.

This is never how it goes.

And Arthur's heart is beating so fast he thinks it might explode out of his chest. 

When Dutch props himself up on one hand over him, 

And reaches down with the other.

“I thought you were dead.” 

He whispers it as he tugs Arthurs cock out of the constriction of his underwear, as he lifts his hips, as he strokes what little pre-come there is down his cock as if that’s the only thing he’s going to use,

The only thing he’s going to need.

“I thought…” 

Pain, Arthur realises suddenly,

As Dutch,

Dutch Van Der Linde,

Sinks down onto his cock.

Pain.

That’s what Dutch wants.

Physical, real, alive.

It’s an achingly slow slide. 

Arthur forgets how to breathe, suspended in the moment, in the vision in front of him,

In the tight heat around his cock.

“Jesus.” He whispers it and it comes out raw and reverent. “Jesus Dutch.” 

He’s shaking, his whole body is shaking with sensation but Dutch,

Dutch is still.

Composed.

Adjusting.

Then,

Jesus, god…

Then he moves.

He goes slow, like he’s unused to it. Like they both are.

But,

There’s skill.

There is knowledge in his movements.

Like he’s done this before.

And Arthur is so shocked by the realisation that he reaches out, clamps his hands on Dutch’s hips and forces him to stop.

He’s done this before.

But never with him.

And for a moment,

There’s silence.

And all the pain gathers, swirling,

Centered.

“Why are you doing this?” He finds himself asking, although his body is begging him to continue. To thrust up into that too tight heat, to fuck Dutch until he screams, until he falls, until he can’t take it any more. To slam him down onto the pallet, fever and wounds be dammed, and fuck his frustration, his anger, his hurt out of him. 

To take and take and take and not once think about giving himself.

“I thought you were dead.” 

Dutch pushes his hands away and starts to move again.

“I wanted to bleed the world, Arthur.” 

Picking up pace, rolling his hips,

Riding him.

Arthur thinks he will die this time.

Oh

But what a way to go.

“I wanted to kill everything.”

Arthur is losing what little control he had, what vestiges of thought he held, at the sight, the sensation so that he only gets snatches of what's happening, as if he’s seeing them through one of those new movie pictures.

Dutch’s shirt sticking to him.

Dutch’s hair curling in the heat.

Dutch’s eyes,

Dark and damaged,

Boring into his,

So that he has to look away.

He can’t take this, he realises too late.

He can’t.

“Dutch,” He hears himself whisper it, and if he looks even half as fucked as Dutch does right now then they’ve got a problem. “I ain’t...I ain’t going to last…” 

He’s stupidly ashamed of the fact.

Finally, he has Dutch on his cock. Finally, he’s inside him,

And he’s going to come in seconds like a boy with his first whore.

“Dutch…”

But,

Of course,

Dutch doesn’t stop.

And he’s pleased, Arthur thinks, as the heat in the pit of his stomach threatens and his own hips push up of their own accord. He’s pleased that Arthur can’t take it, pleased that he’s going to make him come like this.

“Shit.” He hears himself whisper, hands gripping hard to Dutch’s hips, not guiding but being led. “Goddamn jesus fuck…” words spill from his mouth, nonsense words, as his cock throbs and twitches and his body arcs and the pain in his shoulder fades to almost nothing.

“That’s my boy.” 

He tries to snap his hips up but Dutch holds him down, he tries to push up for a kiss but Dutch pulls back. Eyes intense, body rigid.

“Why…” He asks it again as he falls over the edge, his orgasm crashing into him with the force of a hundred bullets. He screws his eyes shut, clamps his jaw tight so he doesn’t call out. Comes shuddering. Comes empty. 

Inside.

Filling him.

And he can’t open his eyes, refuses to. Ashamed of his body’s betrayal, ashamed of his own eagerness, ashamed of the all consuming need he has.

Until.

Fingers brush the sweat slick strands of hair from his forehead,

And lips press against his ear.

And whisper,

“I’ll burn the whole world if you leave me, Arthur.”

A threat and a promise.

His whole body aches but Dutch is still over him, lifting his hips enough to let him slip out, messy and dripping.

He’s never had Dutch in a position where he’s voulnerable.

And he’s never seen him look so debauched.

Arthur reaches up with his good arm, digs his fingers into the curls at the nape of Dutch’s neck.

“Next time,” He murmurs, lips close to his. “I’ll make it last.” 

He feels Dutch smile.

And it’s cruel.

“There won’t be a next time.” 

No.

He thinks.

Of course.

There shouldn’t have been a ‘this’ time.

But he’ll never forget it.

Never, not if he loses everything, will he forget this.

“Do you want me to…” He trails off as Dutch kisses his open mouth. 

“You should rest. I need you fit. I need you up and about Arthur, there’s lots to do.” And he’s moving off him, leaving Arthur cold. 

He can’t help but notice,

As he pulls his trousers on,

The come, his come, 

Glisten on his thighs.

He catches his eye and knows instantly that Dutch had tracked his gaze. 

He also noticed,

How hard he still was.

But he knows not to ask again. Dutch has his reasons. His reasons for being here. His reasons for doing this.

For giving him this.

So he won’t ask.

And Dutch won’t have to lie.


End file.
